Dangerous Redemption: A Single Parent Forbidden Romance Novel (Paths To Love Book 4)
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Dangerous Redemption
Grahame Claire
Dangerous Redemption (Paths To Love, Book Four) Grahame Claire
Copyright © 2019 Grahame Claire
All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editing And Proofreading:
Sue Grimshaw, Edits by Sue
Marion Archer, Marion Making Manuscripts
Karen Lawson and Janet Hitchcock, The Proof is in the Reading
Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies
Cover Design:
Hang Le, By Hang Le
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9974728-3-7
Created with Vellum
For those who aren’t afraid to fall hard.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Enjoy this book?
Bonus Scene
Book Stuff
Acknowledgments
Also by Grahame Claire
About the Author
Chapter One
Carlos
Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.
An express shuttle straight to hell was exactly where I was putting that scum. Still more than the bastard deserved. I'd been waiting for this chance a long time. Today was the day for redemption.
With my right hand, I touched my forehead. In the name of the Father.
I dropped that hand to my lower chest. And of the Son.
Left shoulder. And of the Holy.
Right shoulder. Spirit.
Whenever I killed like this—with intent—such was my ritual. It wasn't for the life I took but for my own soul. Though I was so far from being saved, it was a meaningless task, as was carrying around my mother's rosary. But I did it anyway. Some things were instilled so deeply, I couldn't disregard them, whether they served a purpose or not.
The first time I'd put a bullet between a man's eyes, I'd felt significant regret. So much so, I'd drowned in tequila for days.
When that didn't work, I numbed the guilt by sniffing white powder up my nose until I was invincible and without feeling. Each subsequent kill got progressively easier. I had so much blood on my hands, I knew they would never come clean. That was by necessity, not choice. I'd become part of a world I hated; death was the centerpiece on which it spun.
But this . . . this was different. Erasing this life had to atone for some of the sins I'd committed. I’d wanted to take this one. There would be no remorse. Not one shred of guilt. Soon, this world would be a better place because a great evil would be erased from it.
I picked up the remaining gas can and poured some of its contents on the decrepit figure in the center of the basement. I'd tied him to the chair, but only because the rope would act as an incendiary device. The only limb the fucker had remaining was half an arm, and I’d left that to remind him of what he'd lost. To remind him of the power I had over him. But I guessed he’d realized that when I'd castrated him.
His hate knew no bounds—he’d ripped our family apart and left us with horrific memories. Juan Carlos Calderón was the devil himself—a diablo who would have no mercy for what he did to my mother, my sister . . . and me.
When he was sufficiently saturated in gasoline, I ran a trail outward from the chair and dropped the metal can to the concrete floor with a clang.
“It's just you and me now, Padre. No one to save you,” I snarled, feeling a slight satisfaction my father was now at my mercy and not the other way around.
“Neither of my children are fit to have my blood flowing through them. Both of you, traitors,” he spit back, barely alive. I was surprised he could even utter one word. The son of a bitch had his pride. Even sliced and diced, he wasn't going down easily, and his words touched a nerve. I ached to bleed out, be rid of the poison that ran through my veins.
I struck a match casually, as if lighting up a smoke. “This is for Mama.”
With a flick, the lit match landed on his lap. A burst of flames erupted, but he didn't scream. The motherfucker laughed.
I struck another match. “This is for Camila.” Bile rose in my throat at what he had done to my baby sister. She deserved this closure. To live a life free from the fear of our father’s torment. Given the chance, he would, and I hoped this slow, painful death would make him suffer to the fullest extent.
Another swipe of a match across the coarse strip and bright orange danced on the tip. “This is for all the innocent people you murdered. All the people you addicted to your drugs. All the people you've robbed of any kind of life simply for your own gain.”
The match landed on his head, instantly setting his hair on fire. He didn't scream. I wanted him to, begged him in my mind to do so, yet he wouldn't give me the satisfaction.
“I'll see you in hell,” he said. It was a weak threat that didn't scare me in the least. Hell couldn't be any worse than the life I'd lived up to this point.
The stench of burning flesh and hair was putrid, yet I welcomed it. Burn, motherfucker, burn. My father's eyes remained locked on mine as the life slowly drained out of them. The bastard was hanging on as long as he could. Good. The longer he drew breath, the greater his suffering.
The smoke got thick as I
looked on at my father's baptism of fire. I actually smiled when his eyes closed and his chin dropped to his chest. There was no way to get close enough to see if he had a pulse. He was one huge ball of fire, and I needed to leave before smoke inhalation killed me right along with him. I would see him in hell, just not today.
On my way to the stairs, I poured more gasoline on him and the floor, igniting the room into an inferno. The last I saw of the man I hated beyond comprehension was his lifeless body burning to ashes through a veil of thick smoke. I raced up the stairs, grabbed the bag I'd placed by the back door, and jogged out of the house without looking back.
Once I made it to the truck I'd parked close by, I drove a little farther away from the house before hitting the detonator stashed inside the bag. A series of explosions sent pieces of the house flying in all directions before turning it into a giant bonfire. As the blaze reached the other explosive devices I'd planted, they fired in succession. By the time they all went off, there would be nothing recognizable left.
I wasted no time driving to the airstrip near the back of the property where my jet was waiting. With the truck parked far enough away, I set it on fire and ran to the plane. It didn't take long for me to get into the sky, even flying solo.
I buzzed the compound, the house I'd lived in all my life already in ruins. Where sadness should have been in my heart, vindication that this was finally over took hold. There were no happy memories from that place. They'd been tainted long ago, buried as if they'd never existed.
Fire lit up the night sky, the pristine war zone now looking as it should have all along. I had plans for the property that had already been set into motion. Some good would come from this hell; I'd make certain of it. By tomorrow afternoon, what remained of the Calderón compound would be bulldozed.
An immense pressure was released from my chest. He was gone. My sister and I were free, and Mama could rest in peace.
Chapter Two
Holly
Guilt.
It was a strange emotion, sometimes so strong it stifled me and others when it was barely noticeable though still there. Guilt was a parasite I’d learned to live with, as much a part of me as my blonde hair.
I stared at the front door. A few days ago, I hadn’t exactly lied to Easton Carter, who was technically one of my bosses and a good man, but I hadn’t told the truth either.
“Mama, your phone is making a lot of noise.”
The reason I did everything flew into the living room, my smartphone precariously balanced in his five-year-old hands. It tottered as he rounded the sofa. With quick reflexes, he kept it from falling to the hardwood floor and held it out to me with a grin.
He dropped it into my open palm, but before I had a good grip on the device, it plopped onto the sofa cushion. My son didn’t get his sharp reflexes from me. I gripped the phone tightly. Not going there now.
“Thank you, baby.”
Gabriel crawled on the sofa and snuggled against me. I put an arm around him as he peered up. “Who’s blowing up your phone?”
I snorted. “Where’d you hear that?”
“You say it when Miss Jacobs calls you a bunch,” he explained matter-of-factly while I sat there baffled.
“I do?”
He nodded, and I scrubbed his head. My little sponge didn’t miss anything. He was so incredibly bright sometimes I wondered if I’d hold him back. Gabriel taught me new things every day. I wasn’t stupid, not most of the time anyway, but he was just so smart. And I didn’t think that because I was his mother. It was absolutely true.
I lit the phone screen. Four missed calls and two voicemails.
“Did you know James Monroe was the fifth president?”
I hit play on the voicemail and held it up to my ear before I absently shook my head.
“Did you know his daughter had a spaniel?”
I tried to give him a warning look. My boy wanted a dog more than anything, and he worked them into the conversation anytime he could. I tried every way I knew how to explain why we couldn’t have one, but he remained undeterred. And I couldn’t be upset with him for that.
“Holls, I need to talk to you. Call me back.” Jason’s strained voice was masked in a casual tone I knew all too well.
I hit play on the next voicemail from his number. “Holly, where the hell are you? You promised you’d come through for me. Call me the fuck back.”
Five minutes between my brother’s first two phone calls and only a minute between voicemails. I’d come through for him more times than I could count even though I knew that wasn’t helping him. But he’d crossed a line there was no coming back from.
He’d put Gabriel in danger.
The phone trilled in my hand. I started and glanced at the caller ID, despite knowing exactly who it was.
Gabriel plucked it out of my grasp and swiped to answer. “Hey, Uncle Jason.” I cringed and tried to get the phone back. “Yeah, Mama’s right here.”
He offered me the phone, and reluctantly, I accepted it. Before I spoke, I took a second to steady my anger. It wasn’t long enough.
“Hey,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral, not for my brother’s sake but for my son.
“Where the fuck are you?” he shouted.
Gabriel’s eyes rounded. I stroked his hair, but I fell short of a soothing smile. It wouldn’t form no matter how I tried.
“I told you I don’t have the money—”
“You’ve got that swank ass job, so don’t tell me you don’t have the money.”
My hand vibrated as my irritation rose. “I’m an assistant—”
“They’ll kill me.” Fear infused his voice, a wild swing from the anger there only a second ago.
“You brought those people to my doorstep. It’s your responsibility to make them go away,” I said callously.
I loved my brother. But I’d enabled him most of our lives by trying to help. This time, he’d taken things too far.
“Just help me out one more time, and I swear I’ll quit.” His voice cracked. I’d fallen for this before because I’d wanted it to be true so badly.
“I don’t believe you,” I said quietly.
Gabriel buried his face against my side and clutched me around my middle. My tension was palpable, and he deserved better than to deal with my stress.
“Holly, come on. Please. I got in over my head.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and envisioned the four men who’d shown up at my house, looking for my brother. That made it much easier to stand my ground.
“I’m sorry, but—”
“You’re supposed to be my family!” he exploded.
“Which makes it unbelievable you’d put us in this situation,” I said, keeping my voice calm.
“I need the fucking money.”
Gabriel heard every word. Most of Manhattan probably had at the decibel level Jason screamed.
“I’ve told you how I’ll help you. If you aren’t willing to do that—”
“I’ll go once I get these people off my back.” That was a lie, and we both knew it. My brother couldn’t get clean until he wanted to more than I wanted him to.
“That won’t work.”
“You don’t understand. You’re on your high horse and never help me out.” His shouted words stung. I understood addiction as well as he did. Maybe better. “I NEED THE MONEY! COME HOME RIGHT NOW!”
“I’m not listening to this.” I hung up the phone.
The guilt came fast and furious. Telling Jason no was the right thing to do, but that didn’t mean it was easy. I feared for his life. If the drugs didn’t take it, the people he was involved with would. Somehow, I felt responsible for him even though he’d been the one to make all the terrible choices along the way. We were the product of the same environment, yet he’d succumbed to that world while I’d run as far away as I could.
“Is Uncle Jason mad at us?” Gabriel blinked up at me with a sheen over his sky blue eyes.
Anger consumed me all over again. It
was one thing for my brother to drag me into his problems but completely another for them to touch my son. I wouldn’t tolerate that.
I stroked his hair. “He’s had a bad day.”
“We could draw him a picture. That would make him feel better.”
My heart melted. Somehow, my boy was the kindest soul I’d ever known, no matter I couldn’t give him the perfect life he deserved.
“It would.” I checked the time on my phone. “We’d better be fast. Miss Jacobs invited us to have New Year’s dinner with her family.”
His eyes lit. “I’ll be as fast as lightning.”
Chapter Three
Carlos
I landed the plane on the runway of the obscure Connecticut farm I'd purchased several months ago. It was an easy gateway between the United States and Nicaragua, one I could use undetected. For all the security measures the US had put in place, it was easy to enter and leave the country without a trace if one had the means. I did, and it wasn't my father's blood money. I was returning all of that to the impoverished people he'd stepped on for his own gain. I couldn't touch it for my personal use. It represented everything I hated—greed, death, addiction.